Professor Moriarty's Crowning Glory
by KSherwood
Summary: Having narrowly missed being sent to the gallows by Holmes, Professor Moriarty tells him that he is going to commit the crime of the century and then retire.  Includes an albatross, the Incas, the crown jewels, and some romantic drama.
1. Plots Are Laid

Professor Moriarty's Crowning Glory

I was lying on the sofa in 221B Baker Street that I shared with Sherlock Holmes, waiting for him to return from the courts. If he had been lucky, Professor Moriarty would be given a death sentence, if not… then I would be wishing someone would hand me a death sentence because Holmes would be like a bear with a hangover at having failed. Ordinarily I would have gone with him, but I had badly hurt my ankle in search of the evidence that Holmes was (hopefully) presenting to the court. Dr. Watson told me to wrap it and stay off it a few days. I had done that, but now I was about to go crazy from boredom.

The front door opened with a bang, and I heard someone running up the stairs.

"Damn," I said, and Holmes burst in the door. "Bad luck?"

"I got there just as they delivered the 'Not Guilty' verdict," Holmes said.

"I'm surprised you took a cab."

"You need to work more on your listening, Sherwood… that was Professor Moriarty's carriage."

"What?"

"He offered me a ride back and told me something very interesting."

"That explains why you're not foaming at the mouth. What exactly did he say?" I sat up some more, keeping my ankle still elevated.

"That he is going to commit the crime of the century and retire. To be more exact, he said, 'I am going to break you, Holmes. I'm going to bring off right under your nose the most incredible crime of the century, and you'll never suspect it until it's too late. That will be the end of you Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And when I've beaten and ruined you then I can retire in peace. I'd like to retire; crime no longer amuses me. I'd like to devote my remaining years to abstract science.'"

"He's always such a charming man," I replied. "Would you get me a drink?"

"Yes, I will. Then hand me my tobacco."

We completed the exchange, and I studied the amber liquid in my glass for a minute. "Shall we drink bad health to Professor Moriarty or shall we do something more charitable?"

He laughed. "When have you ever known me to be charitable?"

"You're right. May he get the Plague."

Holmes drained his glass and picked up his violin.

_Across town in his conservatory Professor Moriarty was waiting in his office for one of his lackeys, a large mustached man named Bassick. At last the big man came in, nervously twisting his hat in his hands._

"_Does that bloke never stop?" He asked by way of greeting, looking at a South American man playing a flute a few feet to the professor's right. "Gives me the creeps."_

"_I rather like it," Moriarty smiled behind his thick silver beard, which compensated for the lack of hair on his hair. "I want you to post these two letters for me… then drive directly to your lodgings by way of Oxford Square and stay there until I send for you. You may seal the envelopes yourself. I know you're unnaturally curious."_

"_I just don't want to end up like Higgins," Bassick said defensively._

"_Ah yes, poor Higgins. All they found of him were his boots."_

"_One boot!"_

"_Yes. He was a good man, but he had the unfortunate habit of asking too many questions. Now all that's left of him is one boot."_

"_Don't get me wrong, Professor. I'll do what you say, right enough."_

_The Professor rose. "I know you will, Bassick. That's why I've decided to trust you and tell you my plan, though you haven't the imagination to appreciate it. It all depends of a peculiarity of Holmes' brain and its constant struggle to escape boredom."_

"_Him again?"_

"_Always Holmes until the end. He's like a spoiled boy who takes watches apart, always eager for a new toy, and once he's finished with it, he never looks at it again. I shall present him with two toys; the first won't interest him much." He pointed at the top letter, which was addressed to Sir Ronald Ramsay in bad handwriting. "The second will intrigue him and soon he will forget all about the first."_

_He opened the envelope and handed Bassick a sketch of a man with a bird tied around his neck._

"_Blimey, what's it mean?" Bassick asked._

_Moriarty smiled again. "That is what I am counting on to tantalize Mr. Holmes' imagination while I am occupied elsewhere."_

_He pressed the envelopes into Bassick's hand, the letter on top._

"_What's in that, Professor?"_

"_The crime of the century… and you're going to be part of it."_

The following evening Holmes and I received a letter from a young woman named Ann Brandon, asking if she might consult us as to whether she should attend Lady Cunningham's garden party.

"What do you make of it, Sherwood?" Holmes asked.

"I've never been invited to one of Lady Cunningham's parties… she's too respectable to deal with the likes of me, but from what I've heard, her guests go away with the feeling that they haven't been anywhere."

He smiled. "Very trivial, which is what interests me."

"I know."

He picked up the violin and began to play a chromatic scale.

"What are you doing?"

"I am conducting a new experiment. Do you see that fly in my glass from this afternoon? If I can find the note that annoys him…."

"You're fiddling while Rome burns, and don't try to tell me otherwise."


	2. Notes

Miss Brandon said in her note that she would call at four o'clock, and at about a quarter 'til there was a knock at the door, but it was not the young lady. Our caller was an elderly knight, Sir Ronald Ramsay, who was in charge of keeping the crown jewels safe, if one were to put his job in the simplest terms possible. He was a pleasant-looking man in his late sixties, and I supposed that in other circumstances I could have been very fond of him. As it was, he thought that I was some sort of Madame Du Barry and was barely civil to me if our paths crossed. Holmes, having no idea what to do with situations like this, ignored his behavior.

"Won't you sit down," Holmes invited him, after they had exchanged greetings.

"No thank you," Sir Ronald said. "I can only stay but a minute. I must show you this."

He handed Holmes a small envelope, which Holmes glanced at then tossed to me. I was back on the sofa with my foot elevated on the armrest.

"Written with the left hand," I observed then gave it a quick sniff. "Ugh, it smells like an opium den."

Holmes laughed. "The message is clear enough… 'The Star of Delhi will never reach the Tower,' but I doubt that you should be worried, Sir Ronald. The ruby is over 800 carats; a thief would never be able to sell it, and to cut it would be useless."

"Nonetheless, I would appreciate it if you were there when it is handed over into my care."

"I will certainly be there, though I am quite confident that the usual police guard will be sufficient."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

I offered him the envelope, but he ignored my outstretched hand, returned his hat to his head, and walked out the door, nearly colliding with a large-eyed young woman with dark brown hair. He apologized and went on his way; the girl darted into the room, hastily shutting it behind her.

"You're Mr. Holmes?" She asked.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," my friend agreed. "You must be Miss Brandon."

"Yes. Oh, I am so frightened." She withdrew an envelope from her bag. "This came for my brother two days ago. He and Mr. Hunter insist that it's just a joke, but I know that something more sinister is at work."

Holmes took the envelope, looked at its contents and raised an eyebrow. "Intriguing."

I took the paper. It was a sketch of a man with a seabird hung around his neck and the date "11 May" scrawled in the upper right corner.

"'Instead of the cross, the Albatross about my neck was hung,'" I quoted.

"What?" Holmes asked.

"It's a poem," I said. "_The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,_ you wouldn't know it."

"My father received a similar paper before he was murdered," Miss Brandon said. "That was 11 May, too, ten years ago today."

"Your father was murdered?"

"He was a self-made man. Both Lloyd, my brother, and I were born in South America. When I was ten years old he was murdered. I can still it… my father lying on the pavement with his head…."

She bared her small white teeth in a pained grimace.

"Does that date hold any other association for you?" I asked.

She shook her head, and the door burst open. A very sour-looking young man with colorless hair and colorless eyes burst into the room. He ignored both Holmes and me, speaking directly to Miss Brandon, as one does a naughty child.

"It was very wrong of you to come here, Ann," he said. "You had no business taking the letter and involving amateur detectives."

"This threat is very much my business, Jerrold," she retorted. "You know what happened to Father; I don't want that to happen to Lloyd."

Jerrold's voice changed to become soothing and condescending. "It's a crank message, dearest: the work of a lunatic."

"Did her father not receive such a message before his death?" Holmes asked, eyebrows raised at the "amateur detective" remark.

"That is none of your business, Mr. Holmes. I will send you a check for your time; I'm sorry that Ann wasted your time."

"That won't be necessary. I have not yet accepted the case."

Miss Brandon shook off the intruder's hand. "If Mr. Holmes won't help me, then I'll go to Scotland Yard."

"I would hardly recommend going to them if you want the mystery solved," Holmes said, amusement creeping into his voice. "I will accept your case, Miss Brandon."

The intruder, I realized her must be the Mr. Hunter she spoke of, drew himself up to his full height, but was still about two inches shorter than Holmes. "We don't want your interfering, Mr. Holmes."

"We interfere wherever and whenever we like," I said, mildly.

"I think you'd better go, Mr. Hunter," Miss Brandon's voice went icy.

Now sounding somewhat pleading, he asked. "Don't you trust me?"

She turned her back on him, and he left the flat with about as much grace as he had entered with.

"I take it that was your family solicitor," Holmes said as the front door slammed.

"Yes, that is Mr. Jerrold Hunter."

"How long as he been with your family?"

"Always. His father was our solicitor before him, and he recently assumed the duties. Oh, Mr. Holmes today is the eleventh of May! Is my brother in danger?"

"Yes, I am afraid he is."

"Please save him! I don't know what I'd do if something were to happen to him."

"I shall do my best."

"What will you do?"

"First visit the British Museum; it might be useful to see if this bird is in fact an albatross and to read that poem about the Mariner. Sherwood, are you able to do a bit of walking?"

"Ready, willing, and able," I said. "I'm about to die from boredom."

"Follow Mr. Hunter. Can you give us the address of his office, Miss Brandon?"

"You suspect him?" There was only moderate surprise in her voice, and no real concern.

"His actions aren't of a completely innocent man," I said, getting to my feet. My ankle was still tender, but I could handle watching an office for an afternoon.

She gave the address and went on her way.

The unstated, but obvious fact was that she and the unpleasant Mr. Hunter were engaged. I noticed the ring on her finger, and that it was dirty while her necklace was clean. They'd been engaged for some time, and he was keener on it than she. I could see why. Good God, Holmes was pleasanter to me than Mr. Hunter was to Miss Brandon.

I found Hunter's office with no trouble and was just about to go up the stairs when his door opened and Professor Moriarty walked out. I darted around the corner and hid; luckily the professor was talking over to his shoulder and not in my direction.

"I'm depending on you," Moriarty said.

Hunter's voice assured him that he would not be disappointed, and the door closed. Presumably Moriarty had shut it, for a moment later he appeared at the foot of the stairs and disappeared. I heard raised voices from the upstairs again, and then a young man who looked very much like Miss Brandon kind of tiptoed down the stairs and out the door. This had to be Lloyd, and he either had a very guilty conscience or feared for his life. I started to come out of my hiding place then jumped back because now Hunter was coming down the stairs, very stealthily.

He appeared to be following Mr. Brandon, and now I had to follow him. I hoped that he wouldn't go too far; it would be difficult for me to keep up a long tail with my tender ankle. It was beginning to get dark, and the infamous London fog was rolling in. Still, it was easy for me to keep Hunter in sight.

Suddenly there was a loud strangled, masculine scream. Hunter broke into a run, and I lost him for a few minutes. Eventually I found him because of the crowd that had gathered.

"Dead, alright," someone said. "Nasty."

I looked. It was Lloyd Brandon with a series of angry red lines crisscrossing his neck and the back of his head looking like a bruised apple. A constable had Mr. Hunter, and Miss Brandon broke through the crowd.


	3. Scene of Crime

"Lloyd…."

I grabbed her elbow. She started to cry, and I offered her my handkerchief but she already had hers in her hand. A cab pulled up at the end of the block, and Holmes got out. I couldn't hear him due to the noise of Miss Brandon's crying and that of the crowd, but I knew that he must have whistled in surprise.

"Let's go inside," I said to Miss Brandon. "Let the police take over here."

Inside the house she sat down heavily on the sofa, but otherwise she showed no signs of giving way to complete hysterics.

"What did you find out about the note?" She asked Holmes.

"It was a threat of avenging death," Holmes said. "Is there anyone who might have a grudge against your father or your family?"

"Not that I know of. My father was a hard man; to do what he did he had to be, but…."

Inspector Lestrade and Hunter went into the next room, flanked by two constables, who remained outside the door. Holmes excused himself and followed them.

"Does the name Moriarty mean anything to you," I asked Miss Brandon.

"No, why?"

"The name came up… that's all."

Lestrade exited the other room, looking somewhat muddled.

"Hello, Inspector," I said.

He looked at me and nodded, then asked the nearest constable where the medical examiner was. Lestrade had warmed up to me somewhat, though we were by no means friendly. Miss Brandon got up and went over to the door that Lestrade had just exited through. Opening it, we were just in time to hear Hunter exclaim, "I have to protect Ann!"

"Protect me from what?" She asked, colder than the North Pole.

Hunter muttered something unintelligible.

"You knew from the start that the note was a real threat, and you did nothing!"

"I was only trying to protect him… the inspector thinks I killed him because I had my revolver in my pocket, but…."

She turned and ran up the stairs. Hunter ran his fingers through his hair.

"She's such an emotional thing," he said, I'm not sure if he was speaking to Holmes or to himself. "She has a woman's brain… she can't understand that such things need to be treated with subtlety."

Indeed. He'd done such a good job of protecting Lloyd. Admittedly, Holmes and I hadn't saved him, either, but we had only known about the threat for a few hours.

"Holmes," I walked back towards the main room. "I need a private word with you."

He closed the door on Hunter. "Yes?"

"Hunter is working for Moriarty, but he didn't kill Brandon. I asked Miss Brandon if she had ever heard of the professor, and the answer was no."

"I thought that something about this rang of Moriarty…."

Lestrade returned. "He was strangled, all right. Just as we thought."

Holmes raised his eyebrows very quickly. "Splendid. Oh, and Lestrade, I don't think there's any reason to detain Mr. Hunter. It should be more useful to watch him."

"If you think so," the Inspector put his hat back on. "I suppose you'll be wanting to look at the crime scene, not that it'll do you much good. My men have already gone over it."

We went outside and examined the park across the street from the house where the murder had taken place. I thought it was a bit of a shame that Hunter hadn't been booked on Suspicion… some time in a London hoosegow might sweeten his temperament a bit.

"Hulloa, what's this," Holmes picked up some branches from the ground. "They were all broken from the trees here."

"And Brandon was strangled and had his head bashed in," I said. "A throwing weapon, maybe?"

He handed me the branches and went into his crawling on the ground method of investigation. I would be the last one to say that it hasn't produced some good results, but it does make him look silly. Putting down the branches, I did my own bit of searching but found nothing notable. I was standing on the spot where Brandon's body had been when I heard Holmes call me back.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Look at this," he handed me a token of an animal's foot.

"It's a chinchilla," I said. "Quint gave me one. I think I still have it somewhere; I never liked it though. Seems to me to be in rather poor taste to go around with some poor creature's foot sticking out of your pocket."

Quint is my late fiancé. It was investigating his murder back in America that got me interested in the world of deduction, though that was not what began my association with Sherlock Holmes.

"It could be important," Holmes took back the foot and held it up to get a better look at it. "Miss Brandon's family lived in South America, and the chinchilla is a South American animal, I believe."

"Yes. I think he got it in Peru. He also said something about eating guinea pigs."

Holmes ignored the guinea pig comment and pocketed the chinchilla foot. He started to say something else, but then a sharp, terrified scream rang out from the upstairs of the house we had just vacated. We hastily returned to find Miss Brandon running down the stairs.

"What is it?" Holmes asked.

"I went upstairs to be with Lloyd," she said. "And I heard music coming from the window. I could see a man playing the flute. It was horrible music… just went on and on, like there was no beginning or end."

"Can you remember the tune?"

"I'll try."

There was a piano nearby, and she sat down, her fingers poised over the keys, a look of concentration on her face. After a minute she painstakingly played a slow, haunting melody. It was pretty, but it also sent chills up my spine. She broke off.

"I've heard it before," Miss Brandon said. "When I was a child, I think."

Holmes and I investigated the grounds again and discovered a set of unusual footprints. They belonged to a club-footed man, but the weight was evenly distributed throughout the print where normally it would be all along the toe. Very strange.

Back at Baker Street, Holmes immediately went for his violin and began to replay the eerie melody that Miss Brandon had played earlier. There was a cold supper laid out, but the music put me off it.

"Stop that, please," I said, getting up. "You make me nervous."

"I need to identify the death music," Holmes said. "It could be vital."

"Could you please stop for a few minutes, anyway? I'd like to eat."

"Very well."

I went over to the desk, picked up the cigarette case, put one in my mouth, lit it, and then offered it to Holmes. He accepted, giving me a brief murmur of thanks. I sat back down at the table.

"Poetry, chinchillas, creepy music, that lovely couple… and that bloody emerald," I said aloud as I poured myself a glass of wine. "Quite unusual, even by our standards, Holmes. I wonder what's going to crop up next."

"If we knew that, we would be a great deal closer to solving this puzzle," he replied, laying down the violin and taking a long drag on his cigarette.

"Elementary my dear Holmes."


	4. Another Note

The following morning I awoke to the damn eerie music again. I got up and found that Mrs. Hudson was laying out breakfast. She looked up when I came in and smiled warily, but her eyes told me that the music was getting to her, too.

"Good morning, Sherwood," Holmes said without looking up. "Is your ankle still troubling you?"

"It's a little sore," I said. "Have you solved the mystery of that tune yet?"

"Yes," he put down the violin and turned to look at me. "It's an ancient Incan funeral dirge."

"Of course it is," I sat down at the table and helped myself to some coffee. "I didn't know Moriarty had a thing for South America."

"His interests are varied, though I never understood his fondness for exotic animals."

"What do you mean exotic animals?"

Before Holmes could reply the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson went to answer it, and a moment later Sir Ronald Ramsay was once again our guest.

"I'm sorry to trouble you so early in the morning," he said. "I just got word that the Star of Delhi will be arriving on the 13th at ten o'clock in the evening. Inconvenient hour, I know, but I can't allow it to be out of the vault overnight."

"Of course not," Holmes agreed. "I shall be there, and you've arranged for an extra police guard in addition to your own men?"

Sir Ronald assured us that he had, declined to stay for breakfast, and then left. I finished my breakfast and was just finishing getting dressed when Miss Brandon arrived again, with a drawing identical to her brother's, but now the date was May 13th.

"They don't even give me time to bury my dead," she said darkly.

Holmes examined the paper. "I now have an answer to your original question, Miss Brandon… go to the garden party."

"But it's a party! My brother…."

"Lady Margaret is elderly and fond of you," he replied. "It would be natural that you would seek comfort from her, and you will only need to make an appearance… perhaps take a walk around the grounds. There could be considerable danger, but if you are the sort of woman I believe you are, you would rather take the risk than be under the cloud of doubt for the rest of your life."

"Yes. Will you come with me?" She asked.

"Not with you, but I shall be there," he promised, surprising me somewhat.

"Thank you."

I walked her down the stairs. At the main door I stopped.

"May I ask you a very personal question, Miss Brandon? Woman to woman, nothing to do with the investigation."

"Very well."

"Do you want to marry Mr. Hunter?"

"No. He asked me, and Lloyd really said yes for me. We've known each other all our lives, and I thought if I could get used to the idea… but I just wish I could end it."

"Why don't you?"

She looked at me strangely for a moment, but I could tell that she liked the idea. "Have you ever been engaged, or married, Miss Sherwood?"

"Yes. I was engaged once before, and my fiancé died. I also turned down another man's proposal rather recently."

"Not Mr. Holmes?"

I laughed. "No. Not him."

"I didn't think so." She opened the door and took a step towards her cab. "Thank you, Miss Sherwood. You've given me something diverting to think about."

I smiled and closed the door. It was my pleasure, though I would not tell her that. About halfway back up the stairs to the flat I remembered something else.

"Holmes," I said. "The thirteenth is also the night the Star of Delhi arrives. Shall I go to the party instead?"

"No," Holmes replied, lighting his pipe. "I will look after Miss Brandon. There is a chance that the murderer may make another attempt on her life, and you are still a bit lame. You will go to the Tower in my place."

"You know how Sir Ronald feels about me! He'll never let me in."

He looked puzzled. "I have absolute confidence in you. Surely that must count for something."

I was torn between flattery and exasperation. Rarely did he give me a compliment, but that did not promise to make the following evening with and anxious Sir Ronald any more pleasant.

"Fine," I said, sitting on the sofa again. "Fine. But next time Sir Ronald can guard his own damn ruby."

Holmes chuckled, apparently in the same frame of mind.

_Professor Moriarty was being shaved by his long-suffering butler, Dawes. All that remained of his beard lay on the floor._

_ "Like to let that razor slip, wouldn't you, eh?" Moriarty taunted Dawes as the blade traced over his throat._

_ "No sir," Dawes assured him, so startled that the razor almost did slip._

_ "Come, come, Dawes! You have as much hatred for me as I have scorn for you. If you weren't a coward, you'd have cut my throat years ago."_

_ "I can assure you; it never crossed my mind, sir!"_

_ "Then you're a fool, and that's so much worse."_

_ Moriarty threw the towel off his chest and stood up, surveying his reflection in the mirror._

_ "Very good sir," Dawes said timidly, adding, "Without your beard sir, you look just like your own son."_

_ "Indeed. It is doubtful I shall be back tonight Dawes, you may as well take the evening off."_

_ "Thank you, sir!"_

_ "Thank _you_, Dawes."_

_ Pausing to take a gun from his desk, Moriarty went down to the street where Bassick and his cab were waiting._

_ "Oi, this cab's engaged," Bassick said._

_ "Of course it is, Bassick," Moriarty replied expansively. "What do you think I'm paying you for?"_

_ "Bloody hell," Bassick stared at the professor. "I never would of recognized you."_

_ The professor got into the cab, and Bassick cracked his whip, startling the horses into action._

_ "What did you find out?" Moriarty asked._

_ "The goods is comin' off the ship tonight." Bassick replied. "The men is waitin'."_

_ "Excellent."_


	5. May 13th

_ People strolled around Lady Cunningham's garden, making polite conversation and wondering how soon they could politely make their escape._

_ "Ann," Lady Cunningham said, smiling. "You are enjoying yourself this evening, aren't you, dear? It really is the best thing for you to be out of that house after… well, is my son behaving himself?"_

_ "Yes, he's been very kind," Miss Brandon replied. "Uh, has anyone asked for me?"_

_ "Why no, are you expecting anyone?"_

_ "I'm not sure. It doesn't matter."_

_ "Oh, Mother!" Lady Cunningham's son, Rodney appeared. "May I take Ann away for a bit?"_

_ She fluttered off to chatter at another guest, while Miss Brandon and Rodney walked down to one of the benches._

_ "I'm very glad you're staying for the weekend, Ann," he said. "I'm not back to Oxford for a bit, and I'd go quite mad from boredom if it were just me and mother."_

_ Miss Brandon smiled politely._

_ "You don't have to pretend you're enjoying yourself. If it weren't absolutely unavoidable, I wouldn't even be here."_

_ "Well, there are things more entertaining than walking around a garden for a few hours."_

_ "Yes, and she doesn't hold with card-playing, so please don't mention how badly I lost to you and your brother last week… oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned him."_

_ "It's all right. I can't pretend that none of this ever happened."_

_ "I suppose not… shall I get us a couple of ices?"_

_ "That would be nice."_

_ He wandered off, and an elderly man in dark evening clothes approached her. He was tall and had sharp blue eyes. The other guests took him for an idle waiter, and the waiters took him for a bored guest._

_ "Is everything all right, Miss Brandon?" He asked._

_ She stared at him in astonishment. "Mr. Holmes?"_

_ "Shh. Has anything happened?"_

_ "No, nothing yet. Am I really in danger here?"_

_ "Undoubtedly, but I'll be watching, and don't wander too far from the lights and the crowd."_

_ "I shall be so glad when this is over."_

_ "Yes, I know." He looked over his shoulder. "I must go; we mustn't be seen together. Good luck."_

_ He disappeared, and a moment later Rodney Cunningham returned with two ices._

_ "Here we are," he said. "Would you prefer the orange or the lemon?"_

_ She took the orange then turned around at the sound of a familiar flute music. "That's a South American gaucho orchestra," she exclaimed, staring at the entertainment off in a corner._

_ "Yes," Rodney replied, confused at her lack of enthusiasm. "Good aren't they?"_

_ "Yes. Yes they are."_

I was standing in the shadows outside the Tower of London with a raven on my shoulder, nibbling on my hair. I'd had a lovely row with Sir Ronald, who had refused to allow me to sit in for Holmes at the delivery of that damn ruby, the Star of Delhi. Three policemen appeared and the sergeant paused long enough to tell me to "be about my business."

The raven flew off. I stared hard at the man for a second before doing what I was told. There was something familiar about him but I couldn't place it. If only it weren't so dark. But I didn't go far, and the raven returned to my shoulder. I fished around in my pockets and broke the chocolate biscuit I'd brought to nibble on and gave him a piece. A group of naval officers appeared and the gates to the tower were opened, and the dingus was handed over to Sir Ronald.

"You don't know how great a relief this is to me," he said to the man who handed him the ruby, Captain Mannering, he called him.

"Shall we come with you?" Mannering offered.

"No, we have plenty of protection."

"Now he's done it," I whispered to my new friend. "Holmes calls it superstition, but I say it's common sense that when you say 'we're fine' that's something is going to go horribly wrong."

The raven, being a raven, said nothing, and time crawled by. I almost wished I was a smoker, like Holmes. Suddenly I heard a great deal of commotion then nothing. The bird didn't fly off again: however, and a few minutes later Sir Ronald appeared, looking quite jolly.

"What happened, Sir Ronald?" I asked, managing to keep most of the ice out of my voice.

"Oh, you're still here? Well, you needn't have waited. The jewel is safe, no thanks to the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. They dropped it."

"An attempt was made to steal it?"

"The policemen, but they didn't take it but ten feet. It was a crank message after all!" He laughed.

"Indeed. Well, I'm glad you've recovered your precious ruby. Good evening."

"Good evening."

I shook the raven off my shoulder. "Guard the tower, my friend. Holmes and I will be back soon, I hope."

A clock chimed the hour somewhere, eleven o'clock.

_Lady Cunningham's party was over, and Miss Brandon was just getting ready for bed when the eerie Incan dirge started playing again. She opened the door to her bedroom and nearly collided with Morgan, the Cunningham's butler._

_ "I was just coming to see you," he said. "There's a gentleman on the terrace to see you; he says it's terribly important."_

_ "Mr. Holmes," Miss Brandon said. "Thank you."_

_ But it was not Mr. Holmes who awaited her on the terrace; it was Jerrold Hunter._

_ "Ann, my darling," he said. "I wanted to make sure you were safe."_

_ "Why did you think I wouldn't be?" She asked, letting her disappointment that it was not Holmes show._

_ "Am I so unwelcome then? You're afraid of me? Is that what all the years have counted for? How are we to be married if you don't trust me?"_

_ "We're not going to be married, Mr. Hunter. I never wanted to, and I shouldn't have said I would, but Lloyd wanted me to, he was really the one who accepted your proposal." She took off her engagement ring and held it out to him._

_ "You don't know what you're doing, Ann. This is all the work of that meddler, Sherlock Holmes and that… woman who goes around with him."_

_ "This has nothing to do with them. I made my own decision. Here." She took his hand and pressed the ring into it. "Now leave me alone."_

_ "You think I'm going to hurt you," Hunter accused. "I really don't know why I don't!"_

_ Miss Brandon turned and ran away from him, into the gardens._

_ "Ann, wait! Come here!"_

_ She ran faster. A second later the eerie music started again. Hunter turned around at hearing the noise then fell to the ground unconscious, a large bruise flowering on his temple._

I got out of my cab at the Cunningham house just in time to hear the damn Incan music start again, thrust my money at the cabbie and without bothering to wait for my change ran through the gates. It didn't take me long to see Holmes' tall figure and that he was following someone. I caught up with him, and we reached a clearing to see a South American man pull a strange weapon out of his belt and spin it in the air. Miss Brandon was standing just a few feet in front of him, seemingly paralyzed with fright.

Holmes jumped and pulled her to the ground. I drew my revolver and shot the man; he let go of his weapon which wrapped itself around the waist of a mock Grecian statue, neatly cutting it in two.

"Are you all right?" I asked Holmes.

"Fine."

"And Miss Brandon?"

"She's in shock, but she'll be fine."

I went over to Miss Brandon and handed her the rest of my biscuit. She ate it without even looking at it. Touching the weird weapon I asked, "what the hell is that thing?"

"It's a South American bolas. They're quite deadly; this was the weapon that killed Lloyd Brandon."

"Well I'll be damned."

Holmes went over to the man, who was sitting up, clutching his hip. "Que le ponga para arribo a esto?"

"Profesor Moriarty… voy a matarlo!"

"I doubt you'll get a chance to kill him," Holmes said as a few people materialized. "Take care of Miss Brandon and our man here. Scotland Yard should be very interested in him. Now hurry, Sherwood! We haven't a moment to lose!"


	6. The Crime

A few moments later we were climbing through the window of Moriarty's lodgings. There were plants all over this room, as far as I could tell in the darkness. I was still trying to get my bearings when I saw a pair of lamplike eyes in the darkness, and then something rubbed up against my leg. It was far too big to be a housecat.

Holmes stealthily disappeared up the stairs then returned without bothering to be quiet.

"No one's here, Sherwood, come on," he said.

"I can't. There's something here… what is it?"

Whatever it was, it was under my skirts now, which I lifted so that he could shed some light on the situation.

He looked surprised for a second or two then said. "Oh, it's an ocelot. If Moriarty hasn't been savaged by now, I imagine you can move."

He took a step closer to me, and the cat hissed menacingly. He retreated.

"Marvelous," I said. "So this is the exotic animal you mentioned before. Did you find out anything else?"

"He's been shaving. He's had that beard for years, why would he suddenly shave it tonight?"

"Oh good God! He was that police sergeant from the Tower! There was an attempt made to steal the ruby, but Sir Ronald said they dropped it. He let them get away."

"That doesn't sound like Moriarty at all. Why would he do this?" Holmes lit the nearest lamp, extinguishing his torch at the same time. "A guidebook? He knows London like a cab driver."

I let go of my skirts, and the little beast disappeared into the darkness. "What's that page that's marked?"

"The Tower of London," Holmes frowned at the book. "The Brandon case was created to distract me, but why? He can't have wanted the ruby. He spoke of the 'crime of the century,' the crowning glory of his career…."

We both had the same thought.

"Good God," I said again. "St. Edward's crown… that's it, isn't it?"

"We're wasting time!"

He was already halfway out the door. I ran after him to an empty cab and got in; he claimed the driver's seat. What followed was the most unpleasant ride of my life. When we got to the Tower, Holmes turned too sharply and it tipped over. The poor horse screamed, and I felt like doing the same.

The guards ran out, and set to freeing the horse and me.

"What in blazes were you trying to do?" One asked me, taking my arm roughly.

"Where's the driver?" I asked.

There was some muttering as they looked. My raven alighted on my shoulder again.

"No one's there," the guard who seemed to be in charge said. "You trying to batter into the Tower, or what?"

"Certainly not! But there's an attempt that's about to be made, if it isn't already underway, to steal the crown jewels!"

"How would you know this?"

Before I could answer there was a gunshot from inside the Tower. Sir Ronald appeared.

"Did you hear a shot?" He asked then noticed me at the mercy of the guards. "Miss Sherwood!"

"Professor Moriarty," I said by way of explanation. "Holmes is in the Tower now, there isn't much time."

He gestured to the men. "Come on! You stay here."

"I will not!"

"It's dangerous."

"We're wasting time like this. Just go!"

Up the Tower stairs we went. I admit I was huffing by the third flight, but the thrill of the chase and my worry for Holmes kept me going. I found Holmes' revolver on the steps and pocketed. Then another shot came from above, and our pace quickened.

Reaching the roof we could see a figure standing by the edge, looking at something below. I knew it was Holmes. I handed the revolver to the person nearest to me and ran over to him, shamelessly throwing my arms around him.

"You scared ten years off my life, and I can't spare any," I said.

"I'm fine," Holmes gave me a tentative squeeze then made me end the embrace. "And the Crime of the Century is yet to be committed."

"Where's Moriarty?"

Holmes gestured at the edge with his head. I looked and turned back around.

"Nasty."

"Better than he deserved."

"Yes." I saw his coat on the ground nearby and picked it up, holding it out to him. "Let's go back to Baker Street."

"Yes."


	7. Epilogue

A few days later we were having breakfast when a note for me arrived from Miss Brandon. It was a short letter, half-friendly, and half-formal. Having broken off her engagement to Hunter, she had employed a new solicitor, who would be sending us a check for the investigation very soon. She also said that she hoped the two of us might see each other again under less grave circumstances.

"Everything seems to have worked out nicely," I said to Holmes, setting down the note on the table.

He waved his hand in a vague, affirmative gesture. The case was over and he was in his usual snit from having nothing to occupy his mind. A fly landed on the table near his hand.

"Are you still trying to drive away the flies with music?" I asked.

"No, I've given up on that."

"Good." And I killed the fly with Moriarty's guidebook.

"Effectively done, Sherwood," some hint of cheerfulness crept into his voice, causing me to smile.

"I learned from the best," I replied enigmatically. "And since you're not playing endless chromatic scales, or that Incan funeral dirge, I wouldn't mind hearing your violin again."

He got up from the table and picked up the instrument. "You lack subtlety, Sherwood."

"You don't appreciate subtlety," I took my coffee cup to the sofa and sat down.

He started playing an unfamiliar piece on the violin, and I closed my eyes to better enjoy it, idly wondering if there was anyone out there who could replace the late Professor Moriarty as the Napoleon of Crime.


End file.
